the sun rises slowly
by saltzmans
Summary: "Yes, I daresay 'fuck' does sum up this situation rather nicely - both literally and figuratively."—johnsherlock.


**notes** | it's a saturday night and i'm feeling nostalgic, so have some johnlock!

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When the midday sun awakens John Watson his first thought is how much trouble he's going to be in with his boss. The second thing is that Sherlock Holmes is lying next to him.

If the hazy memories from the previous night weren't beginning to seep through his hungover-brain, John would have assumed Sherlock had just lain down next to him whilst waiting for him to awake, because he's fully dressed in his usual shirt and suit, with a slightly bored expression on his face.

Unfortunately, the messy memories of that very same suit being thrown across the room the previous night are all too clear now and John's begun to realise that the situation he's woken up to is very definitely not a dream.

"Fuck."

"Morning, John," Sherlock's annoyingly chipper voice breaks through the barrage of thoughts and questions and what-the-actual-fucks which are running through John's befuddled mind.

"Fuck," John repeats.

"I suppose that does rather accurately sum everything up," Sherlock comments idly. "Both literally and figuratively."

"Fuck."

"I understood you the first time, Watson, no need to repeat yourself. I recommend you get up and dressed because we have a murder to solve."

"Are you joking?"

"I never joke," Sherlock replies, managing to sound genuinely shocked at such an accusation, "unless, of course, you're referring to that time with the dolls house, which was a complete misunderstanding, and overreaction on your behalf."

"No, but–"

"Do stop dithering," Sherlock says, pulling the duvet off of John who lies there for a few seconds shivering, before realising he's stark naked. He yelps, snatching the covers out of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock sends him a reproachful look. "Don't be so melodramatic, John, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

"Nothing you–what!?" John trails off, scrunching his eyes shut and hoping that if he keeps them closed for long enough, he can pretend that everything was just a particularly strange dream. Tentatively opening one eye, John lets lose a sound of dismay for the scene is as it were before — if not worse — as Sherlock is now staring at John with a expression of concern, as if he had suddenly announced he had plans to assassinate the prime minister.

"Haven't I mentioned there's a dead body?" Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. "I really rather think you need to get your priorities sorted out, Watson."

"Dead body? I need—" John begins.

"You need to get dressed, that's what," Sherlock replies, moving away from the bed and rummaging through John's chest of drawers. "They a found a dead woman in a church in Chiswick and we need to get there before Lestrade's team of blithering idiots contaminate the scene anymore."

"My head..." John mumbles, because it's far too early and he's far to hungover to be discussing dead women and contemplating the fact that he had slept with—

"Yes, yes, here—" Sherlock throws two white pills in the general direction of John. "Have some paracetamol."

Blindly reaching for the first mug he can find, John swallows the pills, wincing at the cold tea mixed with—was that vodka?—that he had mistakenly picked up.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asks, and ploughs on without waiting for a reply, throwing a pair of clean trousers and a shirt at John. "Right, perfect. Now put these on, I'll make breakfast and then we can be off. Finally."

"But I need to shower," John says, rubbing his temples. The whole scenario had escalated to a point where he was wondering if this was all some bizarre nightmare or the product of a elaborate prank created by Sherlock.

But then we remembers the intensity of Sherlock's mouth on his the night before and feels the risen bruises on his neck and figures that it's probably anything but.

"You showered last night," Sherlock informs him, taking a pointed sniff in John's direction. "You'll be fine with some deodorant."

"I—how do you know I showered?"

"I was there," Sherlock replies.

"You were there?" John asks incredulously. "When you say you were there...?"

"Yes, we showered together," Sherlock says, letting out another sigh. "Honestly Watson, you didn't even drink that much. I can't believe you made it through medical school with such an appalling memory."

"No," John shakes his head rather aggressively, "we did not shower together."

"Oh, come on," Sherlock says, "you can't deny the evidence. I smell of your body wash — a brand I would never use, for fear of smelling like the Body Shop — unless it was physically put on me by someone else and since the only two people in last night were you and I, the facts stand as stated."

"I don't even know—" John begins.

"We'll discuss this later," Sherlock says. "You're still going through the denial stage of the whole situation. Get dressed now. I'll make bacon."

"Bacon?"

"Yes, bacon, John. Have you really forgotten basic vocabulary?" Sherlock lets out a world weary sigh before existing the room leaving John siting shell-shocked on the bed.

Sherlock reappears have a second later. "You've got no clean underwear left, by the way, and I can't find yours from last night so you're going to have to go without."

.

Still slightly dazed by the whole situation, but dressed, brushed and underwear-less, John enters the kitchen fifteen minutes later, bleary eyes but with his head a little clearer than earlier.

Sherlock is standing by the stove, manoeuvring bacon between two slabs of white bread. John's stomach rumbles at the sight of it.

"Watson!" Sherlock acknowledges as John lets out a slight cough, still standing awkwardly by the door. "I'm afraid we're far too investigate the actual scene of crime but Lestrade as messaged me the address of a priest in Lewisham who may have a lead. You can eat en route — I'll just wrap this up for you."

"Sherlock, I—aren't we going to talk about this?"

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asks, briskly wrapping the sandwich in tinfoil. "I don't think I've burnt the bacon again."

"No, no, no," John chews his lip agitatedly. "I mean about last night and the shower and things."

"Oh, you mean because we slept together?" Sherlock asks, throwing John the package and donning his coat. "I don't see why it should be a problem — I'm told it's a regular pastime of most people."

"Yes," John replies, "but it was me and you...in bed. Don't think we should discuss it?"

"If you want," Sherlock remarks. "Discuss."

"I—" John begins, before stopping, not entirely sure what there is to discuss.

"You know it's very unattractive when you dither?" Sherlock comments. "Please get on with it anyhow, we have a murderer to catch."

"You're just so—screw it," John says, dropping the sandwich on the floor, crossing the few remaining steps towards Sherlock and kissing him hard on the mouth.

The second their lips touch, it's as if something has been lifted off of John because kissing Sherlock whilst sober is like letting go. It's like Sherlock is a piece he's been craving, the final string on his balloon which has been cut and now John is floating far, far, far away. He's free, he's happy, he's—

"I do hope my sandwich is alright."

John isn't aware Sherlock has pulled away until his voice brings him back to earth. "I—"

Sherlock hands him back the tinfoil package. "Still got something to discuss?" He teases.

"No," John nods, still relishing the remainder of warmth on his lips. "I think I'm good."

"Fabulous," Sherlock strides towards the door. "In that case, we have a murder to—oh, hello Mrs Hudson."

"Hello, Sherlock, John," their landlady appears round the door, carrying a folder pile of grey material. "I think one of you must've left your pants on the stairs last night. You made rather a racket, you know. But I daresay I shan't complain much, boys will be boys, that's what I always say, and I too had my fun back in the day — still do now and again. Anyway, which one of you do these belong to?"

Sheepishly, John raises his hand.

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_please don't favourite without leaving a review :)_


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